


He Holds My Heart

by interorbitalteeth



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Andy gives off big sister vibes, Booker being Booker (aka depressed and self-loathing), Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit due to eventual smut, Finally I can use all my WWI knowledge for something, M/M, Nicky goes by Nico in this fic, Pining Booker, Platonic? Touching, So Wade is historically accurate, Sorry to anyone who actually speaks Scots Gaelic, There were Scotsmen who wore kilts in WWI, Trans Male Character, World War I, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25691347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interorbitalteeth/pseuds/interorbitalteeth
Summary: In the midst of World War One, Booker tries to deal with his intense feelings for a certain Scotsman.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	1. The Trench

**Author's Note:**

> Wade is my OC that I use for a lot of different fandoms. This version of him is an immortal 1100+ year-old Scottish warrior. He is also transgender.

“SEBASTIEN!” Wade screams, all but tumbling down the embankment and into the trench below. “SEBASTIEN! BOOKER! SEBASTIEN!”

Out of his still-functioning eye Booker can see the others swarm around him and he tries to reach out, to speak, to reassure them that he's fine. But his arms won't move, his mouth won't form the words, he can't even breathe. He hears Nico say something in a long-dead dialect, Andy firing out orders at top speed, Joe breathing heavily, all panic. But the last thing he hears before the darkness takes him is Wade screaming his name.

Booker wakes to the smell of dirt and gasoline and sweet rotten gore. He's face up on his back in some underground garage or storage area, the flickering electric lamps only illuminating small patches of the cavernous place. He groans, turns his head to spit out a handful of teeth, tries to sit up but the pain in his healing limbs sends him back to the floor. He can hear his bones knitting themselves together, the slick sound of organs mending, small pinging sounds as bits of shrapnel are ejected from his body. He groans again, louder.

“Well that took long enough,” a voice echoes from somewhere in the depths of the cavern. “I mean, we all know big wounds take longer to heal, but you were out for nearly two hours, mo charaid. Might've thought we'd lost you for good if we couldn't see your fucking skull knitting itself back together.”

The heavy thump of boots accompanies the voice, steady like a drumbeat. Booker doesn't need to see him to know that it's Wade. He knew it from the time the man opened his mouth, his thick Scottish accent wrapping around the words like a wool sweater.

“What happened to me?” he says, voice raspy. “All I remember is everyone screaming.”

“Mortar hit you square on. Blood and guts everywhere, took out eight men besides you. Saw it all from the top of the trench. Like a bullet through a jar of strawberry jam.”

Booker gags theatrically on the disgusting comparison. He can't help but notice though how Wade doesn't say what he did after, how he howled Booker's given name like a wounded animal, how he all but fell into the trench after him. Maybe he imagined those things, imagined the flayed-open look on the Scotsman's face, imagined how he'd pushed through the bodies to get to him. Yes, they'd been nothing but dying fantasies.

Wade plunks himself down on the floor next to Booker, and of course Booker can't help but stare. The hormones Wade's been taking are really doing their job on making him look like the man he is. His chest is broader, his arms thicker with muscle, his legs slowly being stripped of excess body fat. If he was stunning before, he looks blindingly beautiful now. Not that Booker will ever dare admit that. He'd rather be locked in an iron coffin and thrown in the ocean like Quynh was than tell Wade how he feels. God, he needs a drink.

“Where are the others?” he asks, trying to focus on things other than the man sitting next to him in a fucking kilt.

“Doing damage control, of course. You can't just show up again good as new after being splattered across the entire Western Front. No matter what, though, we'll have to move on. Get new papers and find another place where we can help. We were thinking North Africa, but Joe probably looks too much like an Ottoman to be fighting there on the side of the Allies. Maybe we'll go up into Russia and help out there.”

Booker moans. “Oh, god, please not Russia, please.”

Wade laughs, low and raspy and perfect. “Andy said you would react that way,” he says. “But then again, I feel the same way about her suggestion of heading into England, so nobody's winning. Either Joe gets beheaded as a traitor, you relive your days as Napoleon's least favorite corporal, or I get knifed in a pub for speaking Scots Gaelic in front of a bunch of His Majesty's finest. Tagh do phuinnsean, as they say. Pick your poison.”

Booker knows better than to ask about the sea. They only go to sea for one reason, and they can't do that with a war on. Whatever. Andy and the others will figure it out, and he'll go along for the ride, as usual, less of an anchor and more a dead weight.

“But anyways, if you can haul yourself into a sitting position, I have a bottle of Scotch with our names on it. Andy and the boys won't be back for another few hours, and any man that survives getting blown to smithereens, immortal or not, deserves a drink.”

If Booker wasn't sure he couldn't be any more in love with Wade, this would leave him utterly smitten.

They sit on the cold floor of the underground garage, passing the bottle back and forth between them. Wade's hands start wandering about a third of the way into the bottle, first on Booker's shoulder, then around his midsection, pulling them flush together. The Scotsman's body is too warm and he smells like gunpowder and cigarettes and wet wool, but Booker still savors the physical contact and tries his best not to read too far into it. That way madness lies.

“You're my fucking favorite,” Wade slurs, grinning at him. “Forget all the rest of those bastards, you're my favorite. I don't even care that you're French, mo charaid.”

Booker can actually feel the hinges on his sanity coming apart.

It is indeed hours before Andy, Nico, and Joe return, and by that time Booker and Wade are half-asleep, the alcohol putting them in a heavy, soporific haze. Andy just rolls her eyes and Joe says something about “European debauchery,” which is real rich coming from him of all people. They stumble together into the back of an automobile and try their best to sleep through the journey.

They end up at a safehouse deep in the Belgian countryside and far from the front lines. Nico gets to practice his Flemish convincing the landlord that no, Joe is not an Ottoman spy, and yes, he is the great-grandson of the original tenant, while Booker does his best to appear as non-French as possible. Wade is still asleep, his head burrowed into Booker's shoulder and he gives Andy a deeply petulant (and frankly adorable) glare when she orders them all out of the car and into the safehouse.

“There's only three beds, so you and Wade are gonna have to share, Book,” Andy says as she busies herself with locking doors and checking hiding places. Then, “Nico, it's too late for supper, stop fiddling with the range.”

“Looks like we're bunking together again, mo charaid,” Wade says, giving him a fraternal slap on the back and swaying his way into the far bedroom.

“Take your boots off before you lay on the bed, Wade!” Nico yells after him. Joe chuckles fondly and Booker is suddenly filled with jealousy.

“Na innis dhomh de a ni mi, Nico!” Wade yells back, reverting to his native Scots Gaelic entirely. “Chan tu mo mhathair!”

And this is the one thing that makes Booker feel left out the most. Because he can't understand Wade when he uses his native tongue, but everyone else can. He knows a few words, especially those that are similar to their English counterparts, but other than that, it just sounds like gibberish. Wade has tried to console him in his own way, telling him that it's apparently a very difficult language to learn and one that is actively persecuted against by the English, but it fails to make him feel better. He just wants to be able to know exactly what Wade is saying so he doesn't miss anything that comes out of his mouth.

“Na bi nad phaiste, Wade,” Andy says. “Gun bhrogan salach air leapannan.”

Wade just groans in response, but it's accompanied by the sound of heavy boots hitting the floor. He acts like such a child when he's drunk that it's hard to believe that he's actually older than Nicky and Joe. That he was part of Robert the Bruce's court and fought the English with William Wallace. It's the same with the rest of them; they can act so normal sometimes that it's a shock to remember that they're hundreds, even thousands, of years old. Again just showing how far out of his league Booker really is.

Eventually, everyone settles down and Booker joins Wade in the far bedroom. The Scotsman is already fast asleep, and he looks so peaceful that again, one could easily forget that he's an ancient Highland warrior and not just some kilted recruit. Booker undresses as much as is appropriate and slides into bed next to him. He wonders if Wade knows that he holds his heart in the palm of his hand. He wonders what Wade would do if he did know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scots Gaelic translations:   
> Mo charaid - my friend   
> Na innis dhomh de a ni mi - Don't tell me what to do   
> Chan tu mo mhathair - You're not my mother   
> Na bi nad phaiste - Don't be a child   
> Gun bhrogan salach air leapannan - No boots on the beds


	2. The Safehouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The five immortals spend their day at the safehouse.

Booker doesn't mean to sleep in, it's just that his healing injuries and the alcohol put him under for longer than he'd expected. Anyway, the sun is high in the sky by the time he wakes up, and he can Wade and Nico outside mock-battling, Wade's Viking blade against Nico's bastard sword, Joe cheering Nico on enthusiastically. It's just another day at another safehouse, some sporadic peace before they pack up and move to whatever front needs their help the most.

The house has a cold tap, but no indoor bathroom, so Booker washes off the filth and gore as best he can with a washrag and some bar soap before changing into civilian clothes. He mentally plans out what he needs to do while he's here – head into town to buy some paper and ink for forging documents, clean and oil his guns, help Andy with that problem she was having with the automobile's steering. There's leftover bread and cheese from the others' breakfast, and some ancient-looking wine in the cupboard. He takes it all with him out to the back garden.

“He arises yet again to face the day!” Joe yells when Booker joins them. “Come, sit, and let these two be our entertainment.”

“It's only entertaining because Nico fights like a court fool,” Wade says. “Seriously, how did he manage to kill you so many times, Josef? Did you get so starry-eyed that you forgot to duck?”

“I had a different sword back then,” Nico huffs. “I would still be using that sword if you hadn't gotten us locked up in Vienna, Wade.” He dodges, parries, almost lands a blow on Wade's shoulder.

“And I got my Pictish sword stolen by Vikings. We all suffer greatly.” But they're both grinning, their friendly rivalry and the shared history between them keeping the argument more a practice in taunting than anything serious. Even when Nico finally lands a blow, to Wade's exposed calf this time, there's no hard feelings.

“Siol naomh, tha sin air a giorteachadh!” Wade yells. “What did you do, season your blade with lemon juice?”

Joe cheers loudly and runs over to Nico to give him a victory kiss. “Hai vinto! Hai vinto, amore mio!”

And Booker feels so incredibly left out of the whole experience until Wade says, “Hey, Booker, bring some of that wine over here, mo charaid!” Thank God for Wade and thank God for alcohol and thank God that at least one of them gives a shit about him.

Later, when Andy is back from whatever she was doing and he's been down to the village to buy forgery supplies, Booker sits at the kitchen table with his inks and his stencils. This is the one thing he's good at, the only real reason to keep him around, other than to be Wade's drinking buddy.

“Do you want to go by Andrew again, Andy? Or do you want to be a woman this time?” he says.

“I was thinking Alexei this time,” Andy replies. “And I know Nico wants to be Nicholas.”

Booker sighs. So they are heading into Russia, despite his complaints. He hasn't been back there since the first time he died, hung by Napoleon's orders as punishment for desertion. Oh, well, at least it's been long enough that nobody there will recognize him. And he supposes reliving his own trauma is better than either Wade or Joe getting killed or assaulted, though he's pretty sure Wade exaggerates how much the English hate the Scots.

“Yeah, the Russians are getting their asses kicked all over the Eastern Front,” Wade says from over in the main room. “Their Tsar is a spoiled little twenty-something with zero military experience. Their people are starving and every able man is being pushed through the meat grinder. Not to mention that the royal family seems to be under the spell of some Siberian mystic named Grigori Rasputin.”

Andy laughs. “Wow, Wade, I didn't know you kept up with Russian politics.”

“I like the way they talk in their newspapers. They're a very thoughtful people. They don't make snap judgments.”

Booker can understand why a person like Wade would appreciate people who didn't make snap judgments. For what seems like the thousandth time, he's hit with the realization of how difficult it must be to be someone like Wade, and how stupid he is for thinking his problems even compare. He's so fucking pathetic. His problems and his grief mean nothing in the face of centuries, of millennia.

He must be thinking so loudly that Andy can practically hear it, because she comes around to place her hands on his shoulders, kneading her fingers into the muscle.

“What's wrong, Book?” she says quietly. “You look stressed.”

“Just thinking about things.” He doesn't want to bother her with his issues. She's got enough to deal with as it is, being their leader and all. Booker does wonder how she copes with all of this, besides drinking to forget. If she ever feels as hopeless as he does. If she does, she hides it much better than he does.

Joe and Nico come in from the garden, pressed against eachother like interlocking pieces. They're flushed and giggling at some private joke, so in love that it's almost painful to look at. Him and the other two quickly busy themselves, and Booker feels some grim satisfaction that at least they can commiserate in their loneliness. That at least he isn't the only one who feels the weight of years spent without that constant companionship that Nico and Joe have. Pain shared may still be pain, but at least it's shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siol naomh, tha sin air a giorteachadh - Roughly "Holy shit, that hurts" in Scots Gaelic  
> Hai vinto - "You won!" in Italian


End file.
